Them.

They made fun of me. My accent, my sharp nose, my facial hair, and even my mother.

They made fun of me because I was more fluent in my mother tongue than English.

I can still hear their laughter.

I can vividly remember them mocking me when I asked something.

But everything changed one day when I put on my crown.

The day I knew my worth. The day their laughter changed to some unrhythmic noise.

I am not a victim. I am a symbol of perseverance.

I have become more than them but I don’t laugh at them. I pity them.

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A letter to my love.

Dear Love,

It is ok that you picked her over me. Who wouldn’t pick a rose over a wildflower?

A rose is beautiful. Poets, philosopher and lovers are hooked over its magnificence. Even gods stare at it. The scent is celebrated and the color is worshiped.

But darling despite the beauty, you crush the rose when you pluck it. A rose hurts you with her thorns. Rose is vulnerable. Rose is dependent. Rose craves attention. Rose craves love. It is withered by storms and the wind carries it away unlike the ungroomed wildflower.

The messy wildflower stands still. Patient, strong and unwithered .It blossoms, spreads and grows without any attention. No man can crush it, and it will hurt no man. A wildflower is undemanding, independent and unbothered.

But I get it you picked her over me. Who wouldn’t pick a rose over a wildflower?

Yours,

Wildflower.